by James Hunter
The Chiye-tanka army began to creep forward, slow but steady as they drew around me.
“Not another step!” I hollered, thumbing back the hammer on my hand cannon with a click.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, this was a terrible idea. What the hell had I been thinking? I pushed those thoughts away, forced those anxieties back as I breathed deeply. It was far, far too late for second thoughts. I was committed now, and what would be, would be.
“You need me alive to get the Seal,” I said, aiming for calm and collected, though I probably looked about as terrified as a heifer en route for the slaughterhouse. “If any of your goons so much as touches me, I swear I’ll pull this trigger. I’ll die, sure, but your one chance at getting the Seal will disappear with me. In order to take this bad boy from me, you need to eat the beating heart out of my chest. Those are the rules, amigo.”
The Sasquatches fell still once more. “What would you have?” the Bigfoot nearest me asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” I replied. “Here’s how this is gonna go down. First, you’re going to command your monkeys to get the hell outta my way. Second, I’m gonna march my happy ass right to the top of that fancy tower of yours. Third, I’m gonna knock the teeth outta your face then set you on fire. In exchange, you’ll get a chance to stop me from setting you on fire and take the Seal. How’s that sound, dickbag?”
There was no response, which left me more than a little worried. Like most of my plans, this was an epic bluff, which relied heavily on them falling for the bait. The Wendigo and the good doctor turned toward one another, arguing. I couldn’t hear ’em, but their body language painted a clear picture:
Wendigo: “I’m a big, hairy idiot and I will crush the puny man-thing for his insults. Hahahaha. He will stand no chance against my superior monkey-style kung fu …”
Doctor Hogg: “Yes, you are a big, hairy idiot, no one is disputing that. But clearly this is a trap, idiot, so just kill him now or it will be our downfall …”
Since this most definitely was a trap, I was really hoping the Wendigo’s greed and pride would win the conversation.
My palms grew slick with sweat—I carefully readjusted my pistol as I waited, tension mounting with each passing second.
“So let me get this straight,” I said, interrupting the quiet. “I’m on your home turf, you’ve got thousands of lackeys surrounding you, a magic crown protecting you from my power, and you’re still too much of a chicken-shit bastard to take on one lowly mortal.” I paused. “The chief was right about you, you know that? You’re a colossal limp-dick. No wonder Winona turned you down, stud muffin. Great hope of the Sasquatches, my ass. I’ve seen a litter of puppies more daring than you.”
Silence resumed. But this was the shocked, anger-laden silence that follows on the heels of dealing someone a massive bitch-slap.
After a long beat, the Chiye-tanka parted like the Red Sea, opening a wide boulevard leading directly to the base of the redwood at the center.
“You will die slowly as I feast upon your flesh,” the Bigfoot puppet said. “We will see how daring your talk is when I rip the heart from your chest, mage. Come. Walk to your death.”
I took a deep gulp, carefully sealed up my gaping chest cavity, and started forward. Yay, my plan worked. Unfortunately, that didn’t make me feel a whole lot better. Why is it that even when my plans succeed, it still seems like I end up holding the crap end of the stick?
THIRTY-THREE:
Die Slowly
It took me ten minutes to make it to the redwood, easily one of the most awkward treks of my life, considering there were hulking, unmoving Bigfeet lining my path the entire way. Plus I still had my loaded pistol tucked up under my chin, which was damn near giving me hysterics.
My body cried out at every step, my mind screaming the second safety rule over and over again, like a broken record stuck on one track: “Never point your weapon at anything you do not intend to shoot. Never point your weapon at anything you do not intend to shoot.” Boy, would I have egg on my face if I stumbled on a rock and blasted open the top of my skull. What an embarrassing way to go, though I guess no one but the mindless Bigfoot would see. A small victory.
A monstrous door loomed at the base of the tree, offering me a foreboding invitation. I only hesitated for a second before accepting. I awkwardly pried the stiff door open with my left arm and sild in, the heavy wood slamming shut the second I passed the threshold. I took a deep breath of relief. It sure was nice not to have those creepy, braindead hairballs staring at me with their creepy stalker-eyes. I whipped up a quick probe of spirit and air, sweeping the room, scanning for any invisible tricksters lying in wait, hoping to clobber me once my guard was down.
Nothing. Alone again. I took another deep, calming breath and slipped my pistol back into its holster.
The ground floor was a hollowed out space with handwoven rugs in a multitude of hues and colorful pillows strewn about the area. A banquet table, big enough to seat forty humans or twenty Bigfeet, stretched across one side of the room. There were also a variety of bookcases sprouting out of the walls, housing hundreds of leather bound volumes written in a tongue I couldn’t even begin to guess at. A giant, unbroken core of heartwood ran straight up the center of the tree, large stairs growing out and up—a spiral staircase that led all the way to the top.
Great, more stairs.
I counted ten different levels on my hike to the top; each one housed huge chambers with vaulted ceilings. Some levels appeared to be guest quarters, boasting beds, rugs, and basic furnishings. Others looked to be libraries or artifact rooms—maybe the Bigfoot equivalent of the Smithsonian. The final curve delivered me to a landing different from all the others—it alone had an oversized set of double doors, concealing the room beyond.
I drew my pistol again—its weight a comfort in my hand now that the muzzle wasn’t pointing in my direction—and pulled in raw energy. I took a few more deep breaths, stilling my shaky hands. Damn, but I was huffing and puffing. That climb hadn’t exactly been easy. Maybe it was time to think about dieting, all of that rich food was taking its toll … ah, who was I kidding? I’d rather die. Let’s face it, for me, subsisting on salads and diet shakes isn’t really living anyway.
“The sooner begun, the sooner done,” I muttered once I finally felt ready and steady.
I leveled the pistol, thrust my left hand forward, palm up, and shaped the force roaring through me into a column of angry orange fire. I’d been aiming for something understated and efficient, instead I got a javelin of flame, thick as a telephone poll, which battered the doors down with the force of a charging bull, blasting the panels from their wooden mounts and hurling them into the interior in a spray of flaming chunks of shrapnel. I glanced down at my hand and gave myself a nod of approval—I needed to start bathing in the Fountain of Youth more often if I got those kind of results.
I didn’t dwell on it for too long, though. Didn’t want to waste the small element of surprise I had going in my favor. I barreled into the room, swiveling my gun muzzle left, clearing what could only be some sort of war room—maps and battle plans lay scattered about on oversized tables. I swept the muzzle right, quick, efficient, practiced, searching for any sign of threat. I caught a glimpse of Doctor Hogg cowering behind a thick, overturned table on the balcony.
No sight of the Wendigo, though, which was more than a little disconcerting—
Something blasted into my ribs like a direct hit from a howitzer, doubling me over and hurling me several feet into the room’s interior. I crashed into one of the thick, paper-strewn tables. My right eye caught the corner as I careened to the side and landed on the floor. I clumsily groped at my face, my fingers coming away slick and red from a nasty split above my eyebrow. Son of a bitch. A thin trickle of blood dripped down into my eye, obscuring my vision further, ’cause who needs their eyes to win a fight anyway?
Glad this had started so well.
I staggered to my feet, swiping the
back of my right hand across the wound, trying to wipe away some of the blood. A second blow caught me square in the ribs, lifting me off the floor and sliding me across the tabletop—the heavy wooden bastard didn’t move an inch. I rolled off the far end and landed on the floor, banging the hell out of my knee on the way down, which was only a minor inconvenience compared to the fire in my abdomen and the terrible pain in my lungs. I gasped, frantically trying to suck in air which simply wasn’t there. We’re sorry, the party you’re trying to reach is not currently available. Please try to breathe again later.
Even worse, I still couldn’t see the friggin’ Wendigo. Obviously, he was hiding behind a bang-up illusion, masking his whereabouts, and using his devastating speed to beat the holy-living-hell out of me before I could even think about retaliating. I should’ve known he wasn’t gonna play things straight. I’d been right in my assessment of him: he was an opportunist and he wasn’t gonna waste time telling me his plans or rubbing in his certain victory. He was gonna knock me unconscious and eat my heart. End of story.
Once more I pushed myself upright, reeling about like a bar-goer three-sheets-to-the-wind, only to catch a crushing, cross body blow from an unseen kick. It connected solidly across my chest, throwing me back against the wall. I slammed into the wall with a thud and slid down onto my ass like a crumpled rag doll. I coughed and wheezed, blood spurting out from between my lips and dribbling down my chin and onto my chest.
There was a small part of me that was glad Ferraro wasn’t here. This was embarrassing. I knew going into this, the fight would be a little lopsided … but damn. After my last bout with the Wendigo, I’d thought I had him figured out, but it was quickly becoming apparent that he’d been using the kiddy-gloves during our first bout. The same certainly wasn’t true this go ’round.
The cut in my forehead was flowing more freely now, blood dripping down the bridge of my nose, smearing across my cheeks, and dribbling into both eyes. I raised my left hand and lashed out blindly, aiming another gout of flame at the troublesome table which had already roughed me up so thoroughly. The table exploded into a cloud of flame and wood—very satisfying—which rushed out like a gale of fiery debris. I couldn’t see the Wendigo, but even with the blood in my eyes, I easily spotted where the flaming table debris collided with empty space and fell to the floor.
I leveled the pistol and fired before the Wendigo could react, the rounds aimed at the invisible mass. There was a wet thud, followed by a rumbling growl as a splash of sludgy green dribbled to the ground, as if the air itself were bleeding. The air shimmered like a heat wave on a blistering summer day in New Orleans, and then the Kinslayer appeared in all his ruined glory: nine feet of wiry muscle, albino white fur and flesh, elongated wolf-like muzzle, and smooth skin stretched tight over empty eye sockets.
He snarled and lunged, rage distorting his already twisted face as claw-tipped fingers sliced through the air with a woosh. I called up a dome of shimmering blue, and his talons flashed in the blaze of light. I leveled the gun and pulled the trigger in another quick succession of shots. He darted back a step, giving himself enough distance to dodge and weave, which was fine by me. I’m pretty good in a fistfight, but not when my opponent outweighs me by a solid thousand pounds and has the disposition of a hybrid shark-bear.
In this case, distance was definitely my friend.
In a blink, I clumsily gained my feet and I slid the revolver home. With a huge effort of will, I conjured gusts of hurricane wind, pulling flaming chunks of door and table into a sphere around me. I was a human sun with hundreds of fist-sized asteroids orbiting about in ceaseless motion. The Wendigo regarded me warily, then backpedaled a few steps, uncertainty evident in the lines of his body, in the way he moved and repositioned himself.
Which is when it hit me—though the Wendigo had seized the moment and accepted my challenge, the fact was, he was scared of me. Or at least uncertain about me. That’s why he’d gone soft on me during our first tussle: he’d never fought a mage before and he was unsure what my kind could do. It made total sense. Sure, in a fight purely based on speed and strength he would win, but he couldn’t know what arcane secrets I had up my sleeve.
I mean, the Chiye-tanka were an isolated people and a tribe largely dedicated to peace, so how could he have any idea what magi were capable of? And even if the Kinslayer was working hand in hand with the traitorous assbag from the Guild, I was certain he’d never had cause to tangle with a mage of my caliber before, not to mention a mage with my eccentric nature. Even in the Guild, I was known for my reckless and occasionally unconventional plans—and I’d buried more than a few creatures who were far bigger and badder than me. It was even possible the traitor running this show might’ve stressed how important it was not to underestimate me—causing further hesitation.
He was testing the waters, so to speak. I was sure of it.
And I could play on that. Exploit it.
“Now, dastardly fiend,” I said, going for hammy stage-magician, and nailing it, “I’ll show you the true power of the magi.” I circled a bit to the right. “Prepare for your destruction, doom-fiend!” The Kinslayer tensed, his body growing tight in anticipation.
I thrust out my right hand, shooting out another lance of flame, which collided into the Wendigo, washing around him in a flare of vibrant, terrible light, the tiara protecting its misshapen host. I couldn’t hit him directly with a working like that, but hopefully the flare of illumination would temporarily blind him … Well, assuming he could be blinded, since he didn’t actually have eyes.
Hey, sometimes you just need to roll the dice and hope for the best.
I cut the flows of my flame lance, the light dying away to reveal a disoriented Wendigo staggering to and from. I threw both arms forward, my orbiting field of wood-chunk asteroids zipping out in response. A hail of jagged, burning missiles, all concentrated on the Wendigo’s knees. The biggest physical advantage this assbag had on me was his crazy-superior speed, so if I could rob him of that, it’d level the playing field.
The Kinslayer’s face registered shock, and his body tensed to move, but he wasn’t quick enough, not quite. I cut the flows propelling the chunks of burning wood, allowing them to pass through the tiara’s defensive barrier and crash home with devastating effect. Sharpened, fire-hardened pieces of wood bit into the skin and meat around his knees, shredding the flesh, breaking through relatively delicate bone, imbedding deep in the meat. Each sliver of wood was a tiny hatchet hacking down.
His left leg gave way under his weight, and he toppled over to his side—the limb now attached only by a thin flap of hairy hide.
The right leg was in better shape, though still devastated. The Kinslayer mewled on the floor, thrashing his arms and clawing at the polished wood below. The tiara also had some remarkable healing properties, which meant he’d probably be up and moving around in no time—so I needed to act. Now. I wobbled forward on unsteady feet, cautious but moving with a sense of purpose.
Already, the flesh around his lower limbs was knitting itself together, but I was almost on him—
A pair of sharp prongs, like tiny bee stings, sank into my thigh. Then: pain. Lots of pain. My muscles seized and contracted, my body went rigid as I screamed through clenched teeth. I collapsed liked a felled tree, dropping onto my side and rolling onto my back as my body convulsed uncontrollably. Just inside the balcony doorway stood Doctor Hogg. The evil shit held a modified Taser gun, with long thin strands of wire running to my leg.
Sweat clung to his skin and his arms shook badly as he held the weapon—clearly, this wasn’t a man used to violence, which was the very reason I hadn’t accounted for him.
I’d been so caught up with fighting the Wendigo, I’d never even taken the time to consider the doctor might offer some kind of resistance. Supernatural entities were always overlooking mere mortals—people like Greg and Ferraro—and I’d just fallen right into that trap.
“Now!” the doctor called out, his voice frazzled
but commanding.
The volts coursing through me faded, but still my muscles danced and trembled, refusing to work properly. The screech of claws digging into wood drifted to my ears followed by the vibration of something big dragging itself toward me. I twisted my head in time to see the Wendigo crawl onto his bloody stumps. Even with tattered legs, he moved quicker than I would’ve believed possible, scampering toward me, bloody streaks trailing out behind him in twin streaks of green gore.
Another wave of electricity hit my body, sending me into a renewed set of spasms. The flare of pain died away as the Wendigo straddled me, settling over my hips, his disgusting face staring hate and death at me as his clawed fingers peeled back my jacket, revealing my unprotected chest.
Nails dug down on either side of my sternum, passing into my skin like a set of brand-new steak knives sliding through tender meat. At the same time, he pried outward with monstrous strength, forcing my ribs apart.
Another second and he’d tear me open wide. I gagged and sputtered, blood and phlegm filling my mouth.
He leaned in, his eyeless face a foot from mine. “Die painfully,” he whispered, his voice filled with impending triumph.
I laughed, a wheezy, wet chuckle. “Not today, shithead.” I spat out a fat loogie, filled with blood. It splattered against the blood-red gem at the center of the tiara. I pushed out an invisible flow of spirit, channeling the trickle of Vis directly into the tiara, completing the binding.
The world whirled around me, pulling at my mind, drawing me down and into myself, away from my body. All I could do was laugh. Not today, shithead.
THIRTY-FOUR:
Form Yancy-Tron
I stood on black asphalt. A narrow street, lined on either side by two-story buildings and lit by the yellow glow of evenly spaced street lamps and neon signs in a riot of hues: sapphire-blue, fallout-green, look-at-me-red. Most of the buildings had balconies jutting out over the wide sidewalks, which were filled with umbrella covered tables, all absent of guests. Bourbon Street, smack dab in the New Orleans French Quarter. Except it was quiet, still, and lifeless—a thing which could never truly be said of the real Bourbon Street.
